


build with every stone

by SenjuMizusaya



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: 69th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Darcy Lewis, Darcy Lewis-centric, F/M, Finnick Odair Lives, Fluff, Hunger Games, Politics, Romance, SHIP DARCY LEWIS WITH ALL THE THINGS, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Violence, darcy will make sure of it, trying to write things as though they could've happened for real
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2019-11-15 13:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18074474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenjuMizusaya/pseuds/SenjuMizusaya
Summary: Darcy Lewis may have been busy surviving alien attacks in a past life, but that doesn't mean she harbors any illusions about what sort of place she has ended up in now.Or, Darcy tries to fit in. It doesn't always work.





	1. Reaping Day

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Hunger Games!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first work for the fandom: it's been a while since I read and watched the movies, but when somebody mentioned Darcy and Hunger Games in the very same sentence I just had to start writing. A fit of inspiration later and we have this story. 
> 
>  
> 
> This fic aims to:  
> -address that oddity of District 4 being a Career District in the books but not the movies  
> -be realistic (e.g., fanfics often portray the to-be-victors as obvious powerhouses already from the Tribute Parade and onward, can we have a slice-of-tribute-life here instead?)  
> -have Darcy Lewis kick serious ass  
> -get some serious character growth  
> -point out that Finnick, Mags and Annie are hardly the only District 4 Victors, even though I won't focus much on these forgotten characters 
> 
> I'm sorry for the OCs in this chapter: Darcy's gotta have a family and there's the Escort to keep in mind...
> 
> Enjoy!

_"The female Tribute this year," spoke Eichelle, glistening red lips shaping the words too slowly, sticky, pausing with the slip of paper unfolded in her hands. Her smile was glazed blood and bone teeth. "Darcy Lewis."_

_And all the little things Darcy had found herself doing the past few years suddenly ended up doing what they weren't supposed to do: be useful._

* * *

Darcy Lewis was genre savvy enough to know that someone with her track record wouldn't suddenly be compensated by being granted all the luck previously denied to her. The only metaphor she had of her situation was one so bad it would make Louis Tully from _Ghostbusters_ look smart: if the iconic main characters of a story were inside a train, and she -as their friend- would be present but since she was ordinary enough not to be in the inner circle, she'd be hanging onto a door outside. When the inevitable tree along the tracks came -representing the villain of the story- the train would only be slightly dented but she, as one of those dispensable normals, would've gotten hit. 

Darcy knew she wasn't an extraordinary piece of wonder and genius but dammit, in her past life she'd literally been surrounded by aliens and heroes whose awesome-rates rocketed into a whole other dimension: while Panem was generally darker with reigned-in freedom, terror used as a whip to control, nothing going uncensored and all other vile vats of poison making her poli-sci side crumble like a house of cards, those around her were human. Manageable. (Although, she supposed even that could be questioned because Caesar Flickerman had looked exactly the same the past thirty years and thus the amount of plastic had to almost exceed the amount of human, and he was still a relatively inconspicuous case.) 

Perhaps that was why she -during the shifty years of her early childhood during which she'd been torn between a 21st Century girl and a small child only wanting calm- went through the movements of contemporary Thai boxing which Natasha had once taught her the basics of. A side kick, how to position the feet for stability, the 'sucker punch' (she never had to learn the names, it was only natural she got to dub them in the privacy of her mind). It wasn't much, but even Darcy felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise as the fear the Capitol spread gathered like dust in every nook and cranny of Panem. 

Perhaps that was why she only complained half as much about the job she took at thirteen at the fish Plant next to the saltwater swamp, checking the nets fastened among the twisting, grappling roots of the mossy trees every morning before school and the afternoon after school. It was slippery and in the mornings also on a strict time schedule, the roots protruding above the water covered in a sheen of algae and the murky waters hiding any secrets. It was only between the trees too far apart to step over the turbid surface from one to another tree that there were bridges, and those were rickety contraptions of slippery wood no wider than the length of her foot.

It was dangerous, but safe compared to other jobs. Safe compared to those doing the inner rounds reaching deeper into the damp swamp, those on fishing duties at sea during storms, those sent to wade through the wetlands north of the swamp to dig with their hands for mutant but harmless mussels- only the desperate accepted such a post, for it wasn't only mussels lurking beneath the ankle-deep water and mud. 

Darcy had gotten careless after her first ten days and, on a morning during which she'd overslept, ended up bitten by something a truce between a pirhana and an eel: she'd been lucky, for all that remained as a reminder was bracelet of scars around her right wrist. Medical care in District 4 existed, after all: they were in the good graces of the Capitol and it was both a relief and a cause of searing bile rising up her throat. 

Her job had rendered her agile, sure in her feet, flexible, strong enough not to collapse panting after speed-climbing a tree like she'd found herself doing a lifetime ago, when all she'd ever picked up was a pen, iPod and trusted taser. That she'd asked her father to brush up her skills with the spear - which she'd been taught the basics of how to wield during the equivalent of PE- a month before her first Reaping, was the panicked insurance of a girl realizing she was just about defenseless. That had been a long time ago. She wasn't sure if she felt any better despite being skilled enough not to accidentally impale herself instead of the enemy. 

Panem was a world of shattered glass and concrete walls and Darcy was navigating it as safely as she could. 

At seventeen, the morning of her sixth Reaping Day, she'd woken up with the phantom of a reminder whispering in her mind. Her name had accumulated in the bowl over the years and now there were six little papers with her name on it. Her little brother Casper had two. Like the majority of the District, the Lewis family was off well enough not to need any tesserae, something she was grateful for even though its mere existence already needled at her conscience. It was a fact that the diminished chances of her name being picked meant somebody else would end up in the commercialized slaughterhouse, chilling her blood until it was rime frost cutting her veins, but there was also a guilty relief both softening and sharpening the edge of it. 

Washing her face, she shivered at the splash of icy water brought inside from the well, and not only because of the contrast. She'd noticed there was a chance of one in four for a Volunteer: the last two years three of the four Tributes had been Volunteers, drastically decreasing the chances of a brave, stupid somebody shouting out their death sentence with that Career confidence of theirs this time around. They amazed her in the worst way possible, befuddled her though she _knew_ her strong aversion to it was because she'd known different times, different worlds, casting an almost unwanted perspective over things. 

District 4 was just about a Career District in practice but in theory didn't quite cut it: Districts 1 and 2 had special training centers to prepare youths to Volunteer and bring glory and pride to their home. Darcy's home had gotten lucky in that teachers tweaked gym classes and that parents passed on knowledge to their children and that each job taught survival and weapon skills. 

Darcy kept thoughts about how wrong it was that it was necessary in the first place to herself. There was a lot she kept to herself, safely tucked into the little knapsack hidden in the recesses of her mind. 

Scrubbing herself clean, shivering and with a constellation of goosebumps across her skin, the hot air trapped in her narrow wooden room -shaded the same washed-out brown like most of the neighborhood- curled against her skin, golden rays filtering inside in lines through the old blind covering her window. Her hair had already been washed the evening before, but today's as well it was rinsed with more care then usual, a gentle massage to the scalp, enjoying the luxury of relaxing into the water of the tub for once, wrapping herself inside a little bubble of peace, its walls far too brittle.

The dress laid out for her was of such a pale orange it almost seemed beige, nipped at the waist and with subtly flaring skirts. A glance into the mirror told Darcy that while it was two years old it still fit: although, now it sat more snugly the small of the waist and tighter at the bust. While many of her traits remained identical, she was not a carbon copy of the Darcy Lewis bounding through the 21st Century: the conditions around her had slimmed and hardened her despite the fact that food was more accessible here than in the disfavored outlyng Districts, the work had added muscles onto her frame and shrunk her still ample breasts, her brown hair, usually the darkest of chocolate, had seen so much of the incessant sun that streaks of deep auburn hinted when they caught the light, the maneuvering through the dense swamp leaving callouses on her hands from the bark. Her hip bone had never had a sharp jut before, but it had now, together with her more pronounced collarbones and thinner wrists. The glasses were a painful absence, blurring the area closest to her eyes and rendering reading difficult unless she did the grandma-read and held it an arms-length away: it was still a manageable problem, but she knew that it'd get worse within the coming years.

She'd even out-tanned Jane.

The victory was a hollow one.

* * *

_Time froze, sound went missing, her heart was a caged bird fluttering helplessly, bruising, against her ribs and she was glad it didn't break free because the outside world was a far worse place to be._

_Statistics be damned, she paused a moment longer for somebody, anyone, but there was nobody. A slow exhale, jagged at the edges, fists momentarily clenching and unclenching at her sides, something the cameras wouldn't be able to pick up in the packed pen. She knew they must've started spotting her by then, the way the girls around her turned to stare like sunflowers turning toward the sun gave her away, a field of plants and suddenly she was no longer one of them. The air was tangible with the relief of those who'd harbored fear, the pity of those who understood and the anticipation and excitement of those who thought the Games to be an opportunity._

_She blinked, starting to make her way forward, mind not absent enough to let her do the shocked wobble she'd seen others do, face schooled into the most neutral thing she could_ _manage. Her feet were steady, steps natural, speed a hair's breadth from fast. Darcy feared that if she slowed down her knees would start shaking._

_Her mind **whirled.**_

* * *

Kanna Lewis shared her daughter's startling blue eyes and longer slant of the face, but she was taller, more spindly of shape whereas Darcy had feminine curves and stood modest in size. 

"You look beautiful," she said when her daughter descended the narrow staircase, wooden planks creaking. Her pale lips were pursed, tight. "Sit down and I'll do something with your hair." 

"It's the occasion for it," muttered Alton from where he was brushing off any salt residue from his shoes, slouched on the stair at the doorframe with the door in question wide open, revealing the beige and brown-gray houses of the neighborhood and dull trees with leathery leaves, the image topped with an azure sky where the blazing sun throned high and mighty, uncaring. Copper and silver streaked his dark hair, his hands weathered and calloused with small scars crisscrossing his tanned skin from the nicks caused by fishhooks and knives. 

"Oh, hush," Kanna deflected, gaze flashing his direction. The breeze made the old linen curtains dance with the salty smell it brought with it. Darcy perched herself upon the stool, the wood of it warm and the square of sunshine let in by the gaping doorframe a hot breath caressing her back. The mother's nimble fingers started weaving through her daughter's hair, catching against the knots. Then the brush was brought in. While it was fashion to grow the hair long and sweeping -or whatever fashion ideals trickled down to the Districts at all, excluding the 1st- it was unmanageable and in the way like that. While Darcy's toddler dream a lifetime ago had been to be Rapunzel and be saved by Prince Charming in order to steal his noble white steed, she was but one of many with hair only reaching to tangle around her shoulders, tips rendered split and coarse by the sea. 

"Where's Casper?" She asked after a few minutes, trying not to bob along with the pulling movements of the brush. "He wasn't in his room." 

"He'll be back soon," Kanna murmured after a moment, concentration evident in her unusually slow speech. "He's retrieving his shirt from the washing line." 

"Did it get stained again?" Darcy wondered, racking her mind. She came up blank: she'd been working longer shifts to make up for lost time during Reaping Day, like some sort of SuperSister. She deserved a medal, but not the kind the Capitol gave and those were the only ones offered: that was solely in the event of a family death during work or something unlikely such as a great service to Panem. 

"Mmmm, but it's only lemon water," answered Alton distractedly from behind her. "It doesn't leave those, ah, blotches?" 

"It's as good as new," Kanna agreed lowly. The breeze stilled for a moment before once again inviting the curtains to dance, insistent and stubborn, patient. 

"He'll smell nice," Darcy offered, locking the muscles of her neck when the pulls became harsher. She was reasonably certain Kanna was pinning back the tresses at her temple and securing it with those metal pins which were always a hassle to tear back off again. 

She heard the telltale rustle and shuffling from the doorframe indicating her father standing back up. Alton seemed to start closing the door only to open it again and let an other person in, this one much lighter of step, before safely shutting it. The shadows of the room darkened and embraced the furniture, walls, floor. She closed her eyes for a few heartbeats to adapt to the dimmed light of the room before opening them again. 

"Done," Kanna announced, stepping back. Darcy turned on the stool: 

"Thanks, mom." 

Her eyes fell on her little brother. Whereas she had her father's curling hair and short built, Casper looked like his mother, a mop of floppy chestnut hair framing his childish face, light brown eyes and already tall, almost reedy, for his age. He offered a monter smile but the fixed lines of it gave him away, the line of his neck, the white knuckles clenching yesterday's shirt too close to his body. 

For a moment he tensed more notably, then pretended not to notice the attention and continued on inside. But there was a glance slanted her way from the corner of his eye, all lost youth. 

Her lips grinned, her eyes offered comfort but her insides twisted painfully. 

* * *

"Welcome, welcome," spoke Eichelle Mink into the microphone upon the stage in front of the Justice Building. Behind her, the door leading into the great house was a dark shape flanked by white Peacekeepers. To her far right stood the five Victors lined up. On either side of her were the stone pedestals presenting the glass bowls filled with paper slips, little names swimming in their tanks, catching the light and winking at the gathered audience.

In the pen for seventeen year old girls, Darcy had trouble staring over the head of the one in front of her: a tall redhead with protruding cheekbones and fraying seams at the cuffs of her sleeves. Craning her neck she finally had a full view of their Escort, who this year was themed with red, gold and periwinkle plants -the dress of perhaps satin and crepe- like a great field of only flowers: azaleas of bright yellow, lavenders a candy red, periwinkle daisies. 

"-to the 69th Annual Hunger Games!" 

The applauds following were typical of District 4, a cocktail of enthusiasm, tense politeness and doing what the neighbor was doing. Darcy's hands joined in, rapid little movements almost jerking in manner. Her sandals dug into the ground when she had to stand on the tips of her toes to check if Eichelle was bleeding from her hands or if it was a webbing of lace gloving them. It was the latter. 

"Before we begin, a gift has been brought to you all the way from the Capitol."

Even from a distance, Darcy could see how Eichelle's lips were a glittering gloss of red, matching the crimson talons of her eyelashes. When the film began playing, _war terrible war_ , the brunette stared without registering at the images, seeing the eternally smoking ruins of the 13th District and the marching of Peacekeepers. Everybody turned to watch the clip play, a field of sunflowers facing the sun. The anthem buzzed in her mind like the flies had buzzed around her head in Puente Antiguo, only more chilling, more ominous by affiliation, inside the very system of things.

She'd never claimed to be good at comparisons.

Another applause, this one marginally shorter, followed the end of the movie. The days of suspense were reaching their climax. Darcy found herself finally able to look at the stage without craning her neck, a gap between two heads opening up for her to gaze through. The tip of her tongue pressed against the back of her teeth when Eichelle once again addressed them: "Now, the moment you have all awaited."

A ripple shuddered through the crowd, people standing taller, smarter, some blank of eye with fists hidden in the folds of their clothing while other with eyebrows twitching upward in anticipation, shoulders squared and an electric buzz humming below the surface. Darcy schooled her face, the beat of a fluttering fan in her ears echoed from the wings of the bird caged by her ribs. Almost over, almost over, almost over. 

"As always, ladies first." 

The sea of sunflower faces followed Eichelle as the floral woman floated toward the bowl. A red-gloved hand reached out, paused above the slips of paper with fingers dancing with the movements of spider legs, the suspense building, then after a final curl of the slender digits they finally grasped one. When the Escort smiled behind the microphone, it wasn't just for the audience in front of her but for each and every person watching in the Capitol and on the screens of the future. 

Darcy reminded herself to breathe. Five in, two hold, seven out. The sun stroked down on the packed square, heating her skin and catching the hints of copper in the ink of her hair. 

The Capitolian unfolded the creamy note with deliberate, steady movements, staring out across the crowd for another moment as the tension grew. Darcy wouldn't be surprised if the Reaping was a cause of heart failure, the fluttering fear of not knowing sizzling in her veins. It made the fast food restaurants of a different world look healthy. 

"The female Tribute this year," spoke Eichelle, glistening red lips shaping the words too slowly, sticky, pausing with the slip of paper unfolded in her hands. Her smile was glazed blood and bone teeth. "Darcy Lewis."

And all the little things Darcy had found herself doing the past few years suddenly ended up doing what they weren't supposed to do: be useful.

Time froze, sound went missing, her heart was a caged bird fluttering helplessly, bruising, against her ribs and she was glad it didn't break free because the outside world was a far worse place to be.

Statistics be damned, she paused a moment longer for somebody, anyone, but there was nobody. A slow exhale, jagged at the edges, fists momentarily clenching and unclenching at her sides, something the cameras wouldn't be able to pick up in the packed pen. She knew they must've started spotting her by then, the way the girls around her turned to stare like sunflowers turning toward the sun gave her away. The air was tangible with the relief of those who'd harbored fear, the pity of those who understood and the anticipation and excitement of those who thought the Games to be an opportunity.

She blinked, starting to make her way forward, mind not absent enough to let her do the shocked wobble she'd seen others do, face schooled into the most neutral thing she could manage. Her feet were steady, steps natural, speed a hair's breadth from fast. Darcy feared that if she slowed down her knees would start shaking.

Her mind _whirled_. 

What strengths did she have to work on? What would the arena be like? Who were the other Tributes and what were their skills? Did she stand a chance- how would she win? What of her family and friends? What on earth would she do? Why was she Reaped at all, there were such low odds for that but the odds had never cared much for _her_ , Dracy Lewis the girl outside the train to be hit by the villainous tree. 

She was escorted up the platform by two Peacekeepers, their forms at either side of her like white phantoms turned solid, a mute warning disguised as protection. Last year a boy had to be dragged up kicking and screaming to the stage in District 5. Two years before that there had been a scrawny girl from District 9 trying to make a run for it but hadn't made it further than two steps. 

Five in, two hold, seven out, and then she had scaled the stairs and stood atop the stage. Up close, Eichelle looked less human and more like a Monster Girl doll, pretty but not anthropoid in the way she was supposed to, her skin white and red with gold discoloring her already off parlor around the pale lavender eyes. With a feathery touch brushing against her shoulder from the Escort leading her closer to the mic to stand behind the bowl from which her name had been snatched, Darcy tried to look steady. She had no idea how to get sponsors and she did not want to embarrass herself by trying to look intimidating but ending up pinched or trying to smile cheerily but grimacing instead. 

Denial still burned hot inside. 

She tried to avoid familiar faces in the crowd, but instead all of them were friends and family. Each expression was a little memory stored in her heart and _oh Thor save her_ , she wanted to come back here to the relative safety of the District so bad that for a moment, she almost forgot that to do that meant her ambition's fulfillment meant twenty-three corpses forever linked to her. 

Almost. 

Involuntary, her eyes found Casper's darker ones, a mute scream tearing at her, dredging up each speck of survival promises and victory oaths from her burning tongue, pleading with her not to think of anybody but herself and those dear to her. 

"Now for the gentlemen," Eichelle continued with her hand gliding above the papers like an eagle before snatching one and floating back to her spot in the limelight.

Darcy's eyes drifted to the Victors in her peripheral vision. There was the elderly Mags, a rock in turbulent waters, a steadiness about her radiating trust in those she looked at and a strength deep in her bones, by far the oldest of them all. The Victor usually standing next to her, the one who'd claimed the 22nd Games, had died two years ago. Then there was the trio of Victors who seemed to have banded together in an attempt to fade into nothingness, fuzzy at the edges, the survivors of the 34th, 46th and 57th Games. Closest to Darcy and the audience was their most recent Victor, already handsome from a distance but even more devastatingly so now that she could discern his sea green eyes in person, the sharpness of them and the charming tilt to the mouth, the muscles hinted by the stark whites of his shirt. 

Eichelle's voice made her avert the hopefully subtle glance, staring ahead into the distance again. 

"This years Tribute is-" 

 _Not my brother_ , she managed to wish. 

"Weiss Ashcall." 

And the moment of guilty relief turned her blood into gold dust, each ounce of her self-control going to not sighing with a smile, but then the glittering dust turned to lead when a slip of a boy emerged from the pen of twelve year olds, a peculiar symmetry to his round face. Beneath the freckles dusted across his button nose he had gone pale, walking slowly as though still hoping for a bold teenager to take his place. 

Nobody did. The sunflowers watched more passively this time. Twelve year olds didn't win. 

He was still all elbows and knees, barely edging into his growth spurt. For a split second their stares crossed: his wide eyes, framed by the dark blond lashes whose color was mimicked by his ruffled hair, were a hazel closer to olive green than pecan. 

They were glazed the same way Casper's had been. 

Shaking hands was a brief moment of contact only, her focus on the tense set of his brow and determined not to look lower. She hoped her hands weren't clammy: his were dry and bore hints of callouses, although the way he gripped hers during that split-second, both of them almost impolite in their brevity of shaking hands, was weak as though any muscle had melted away. She saw him swallow back tears, the motion almost painful. 

Darcy turned to look right ahead once again, above each and every head, focusing on the lowest window of the building at the opposite side. She'd been relieved this skinny boy had been sentenced to death. That was Loki-level bad. The tip of her tongue pressed harder against the back of her teeth, throat burning, breathing slow and measured. 

Eichelle Mink ploughed on with a grand gesture and the audience geared up for a grand applause: "I present to you; this year's Tributes from District 4, and may the odds be  _ever_ in your favor!" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Darcy is nice to write even in a setting as depressing as Panem O.O
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! It was great to write this and I hope to publish the next chapter within the following two weeks^^


	2. Head-Start Sneak Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everybody^^ Sometimes I'm amazed to see people reading and commenting on these weird ideas which I write...
> 
> We don't really have a model to follow when it comes to Finnick being a Mentor, so if you initially find him ooc, I say: stick with it, it gets better. If you don't, I say: thank you, you have (probably) seen my intentions and reasoning.
> 
> Prepare for cringe conversations:

Darcy found herself in a scarcely furnished yet aesthetically pleasing room up in the Hall of Justice. The walls were a subtle blue-green and the window frames of a dark wood which could've been ebony, a dust-colored carpet covering the floor and, tellingly, it all matched the books piled upon the shelf and desk. A low bench, cushioned with gentle teal and sandy tan pillows, was pushed against the wall furthest from the door. It would've been stylishly simplistic, in an other life, but here and now it almost seemed gaudy compared to her usual surroundings. 

She even missed the saltwater swamp. 

There was nothing she could think of which could serve as a token: nothing in the room, nothing she had on herself, and most likely not a thing on her family or friends which was portable. Unless they decided to undress, and while she wouldn't mind if that hunky young man across the street gave her his shirt, it didn't seem practical nor logic. 

It also took a very long time before any visitors had made their way up to the top floor. By the time the door finally opened, Darcy had found herself with far too much alone time already and tears burned like acid in her throat, painful as though they were eating away at her skin and opening her up from the inside out. 

Her eyes were wide and rendered dry like rubber, nonexistent sand pricking at the corners. 

"Darcy!" It was Casper, unsurprisingly, who bolted into the room first, a little cannonball of messy curls and red-rimmed eyes glassed over with salty tears. Then he attached himself to her like a leech, fingers curled into the dull material of her dress and face pressed into the hollow between her collarbones when she hugged him back in return, tight and hard and trying to find something real in a world of shadows and dreams. 

"This isn't really happening, tell me it isn't real," he cried, words muffled and distorted. Kanna and Alton slipped into the room as well, the former steely-eyed and aloof while the latter shuffled with hunched shoulders and a bottom lip gnawed upon so hard it was bruised and bleeding, teeth still biting into it. 

"I-" Darcy started, then took a step back to ruffle his hair with the bravest smile she could muster, hiding behind it. "Don't worry, I'll be back soon, you'll see." 

(Coming back meant little Weiss would die for her ambitions but he'd die either way and she just- how- _why_?) 

"Promise me!" He cried, the shouting sort, and any other time she'd have compared his cracking, hissing voice to Gollum's, but she couldn't. Not this time. 

"I promise, precious," she had to say, but felt sick at the joke only she understood, felt sick when knowing what was awaiting her, lurking behind the door and outside the flimsy bubble of the room cocooning them. She felt bile rise in her throat and the pressure of tears and disgust tearing like claws: searing and blunt and sharp. "I promise a million times over." 

She was grateful to be able to hide her face into her father's shoulder, swallowing down the lump and breathing in through her nose -five in, two hold, seven out, repeat- until she could focus through the baseline drumming echoing in her ears and felt confident enough in her ability not to crumple and fade like Obi-Wan Kenobi had when meeting his end at Darth Vader's saber. 

"Hey, dad," she mumbled, and his broad, calloused hands tightened for a moment before letting her breathe again. Tears ran freely, mutely. Voice on the verge of audible, she mumbled against the material of his shirt; "It's a bit of a shitty situation, but I'll pull through. I always do. It's my specialty." 

"We should've practiced more with the spear," was his own apology in return, hidden from the rest of the family into the curls of her hair, "I should've made more time for you." 

"You did more than enough," Darcy lied, hugging him a moment longer while trying to memorize that odd scent of marinated seaweed, dusty wood and lacquer which she always associated to Alton Lewis. Then they parted and she smiled again as though she were simply going on a trip for a few days; "I'll miss you."

"Miss you more," he answered, resting a hand on Casper's shoulder (though she couldn't say which one of them he was supporting) when Darcy was swept into a tight, bony hug by her tall mother. 

"Fillet them," Kanna whispered, barely audible, as she held her daughter close, resting her pointy chin upon Darcy's head. 

"I'll do my best," she replied, words muffled since her face was pressed against her mother's collarbone. Then Casper took his mother's place, thin arms tightening like snakes going for the strangle. 

"Don't cause trouble while I'm gone," she instructed gently, hugging him back, savoring the final little moments of family comfort. "Do the dishes. And don't go into my room, I'll know if you did. Promise me." 

"I promise," he swore readily. 

Darcy's face laughed but behind that, her mind was a whirlwind. 

* * *

The train was of gleaming metals on both the outside and inside, studded with lights and kitsch chandeliers dangling above her head. Once the door closed behind her and a ghostly Weiss, she wondered how she'd ever wanted to reach the prison-like transport in favor of being pulled through the excited, clamorous crowd awaiting her and her fellow Tribute outside the Hall. It had been a nauseating few minutes: the sun baked her and she hadn't even been able to hear the soothing rumble of the sea in the distance, not to mention the fact that she'd needed to go to the toilet. Yet again she hadn't dared to try to cheer and wave back, hadn't even attempted a laugh even though she did, when glancing back over her shoulder in the doorway of the expensive train, flash the roaring crowd a terse smile before being welcomed into the cool shade and luxury of the Capitol's train. 

Weiss had kept close to her the entire time and she rather wished he hadn't. 

"Aren't the two of you a marvelous duo," Eishelle proclaimed once Darcy returned from the fancy toilets, clapping her gloved hands together with a toothpaste-commercial smile. The brunette figured the Escort wore contacts, because that particular shade of lavender was unnatural and she did not want to think about tattooing irises or going through pigment-alteirng surgeries. "The buffet is ready- I assume you're both very hungry, feel free to sit down." 

With the red-laced hands on each Tribute's shoulder, the ageless woman led them to the table. It was a smooth, polished expanse of wood the color of raspberry smoothies, which Eishelle didn't fail to comment on: "It's Pink Ivory, my dears." 

What was even more startling was the amount of food laden upon the apparently non-painted table. Darcy couldn't even begin to guess what was a snack, what was dessert and what was decorations. She hoped there'd be pralines. Weiss stared with wide hazel eyes and then, while Eishelele announced she'd retrieve the Victors, quickly plopped a round biscuit into his mouth. 

"This is good," he conveyed through the thoughtful munching, "this is really good." 

"That's great, buddy," Darcy said and ruffled his hair, pretending to be very interested in the copious amount food presented in order to avoid facing him fully just yet. Two deep breaths later, she pulled a chair out for him and, at his blank expression, ushered him into with a shake of her head and a grin which wasn't entirely forced. "Now eat as much as you'd like, it's all for us." 

To which she perched herself upon the chair next to him and tried to pick out what to eat. Her stomach was empty yet she didn't feel hungry at all. Weiss had mutely started eating a slice of pie which possibly contained salmon and spinach, though Darcy wasn't too sure. It looked mouthwatering yet disgusting. Her stomach churned. She wasn't sure if that was because she'd gone the last few hours without food after leaving her breakfast mostly untouched and was therefore too hungry, or if it was the entire situation messing with her appetite. She knew she had to eat, knew she should build up each reserve possible: this was not the time to mull over a Capitol-approved thigh gap.

(She wished she'd be able to worry about silly things like that. There were many things she wished for.) 

Bile rose in her throat. 

Then she gave herself a mental slap and told herself that if she'd been able to survive alien attacks she'd be able to get over her own lacking appetite and nausea. Turning to face Weiss with a kind smile, she asked: "The pie good?" 

At his nod she took a slice for herself. It was indeed salmon and spinach quiche and it melted on her tongue even though she'd had salmon too often the last seventeen years and spinach had been the bane of her life a lifetime ago. It was one of the most wondrous things she'd ever tasted. 

The duo ate in silence. 

Almost done with the peanut ice-cream she'd scooped into a crystal bowl for herself after a fatty lamb steak she'd worked through once done with the quiche, starting to feel pleasantly full and with a food-coma coming along nicely, the Escort returned with the five Victors in tow. First out of the automatic door was the gaudy Eishelle Mink, then came steadfast Mags followed by glamorous Finnick and the Ghost Trio finishing up. 

Darcy washed down the ice-cream with generous gulps of water, glad she'd mangled to avoid a brain-freeze. 

"Finally," Weiss breathed, jumping to his feet though then unsure of why he'd done that. "So- how exactly are we going to win?" 

 _We_ going to win- Darcy glanced at him from the corner of her eye with eyes a little too sharp, then stopped herself from saying something by scraping the last spoonful of peanut ice and swallowing it whole. 

"For starters," Finnick was the one to answer, tone easy, "we sit down and have a happy meal together in which the two of you do most of the eating." 

"I think I can handle that," Darcy supplied and helped herself to a second serving of ice-cream, guessing the new flavor to be mocha. It ended up being hazelnut, but she could handle that as well. 

"But-" Weiss started, then reconsidered and sat back down, picking at his marinated chicken-leg before digging in once again. "And then?" 

"Then," Mags said as she, with some degree of effort, sunk into the chair opposite the young boy. Darcy couldn't help but to be surprised: Mags was still able to speak and she should have figured Mags wasn't so old as to not be able to speak yet. "Then we watch the Reapings of the other Districts to know what we are up against." 

"...and after that?" Weiss prodded, clearly aiming for a strategy to suddenly come up. Darcy almost wished she had the hopeful naivety of a thirteen year old as well. 

"Then we'll see," Finnick stated, clearly putting and end to it even though his easy grin remained in place. He sat down next to Mags in front of Darcy, which she _did_ mind since he was rather distracting even though the food eventually won out in the battle for her attention, the Ghost Trio scattering about the room and disappearing into the leather armchairs of the room. Eishelle arranged herself in a sofa at the other end of the carriage in front of a table with a small projector, smile more natural this time around. If it weren't for the situation, it would have been awkward. "Now, however, it's Questions and Answers." 

"Right." 

"I want to know what the two of you are able to do," he stated, grin replaced by something more serious even as he picked out a muffin for himself. "No modesty, only brainstorming." 

There was a moment of silence wherein brith Tributes waited for the other to start.

"I can climb- without falling. I mean, I don't trip, I'm steady on my feet. I worked in the saltwater swamp," Darcy clarified, "so I have endurance. And my aim with the spear isn't terrible either." 

"Not terrible?" Finnick repeated, sea-green eyes meeting hers and she really shouldn't be thinking that they reminded her of the turquoise bay close where she usually hung out after work.

"Not terrible," Darcy confirmed, shrugging apologetically, "I would't accidentally stab myself or somebody else. I'd graze a moving target at medium range." Heat threatened to suffuse her cheeks. "But I'm good with traps and knots." 

"Good?" It was Mag's turn. 

"Very good," Darcy corrected herself, which was the truth: she _was_ very good, but not excellent. 

The two Victor's attention turned to Weiss. Darcy couldn't read their otherwise vaguely interested expressions. 

"I can run," the young boy announced somewhat desperately, "and I'm okay with the knife. And I'm funny. I think. At least when I'm with friends and not on a train toward almost certain death." 

Before Mags or Finnick could reply, one of the Ghost Trio cut in: "Love the attitude," said the gray man from the corner, "but I'll tell the two of you something which will be even more instrumental to winning than how you can chop someone to bits. Lil' lady is a looker and mini mister is cute. How often do you see ugly people winning the Games? Not often, I'll tell you that." 

"Thank you, Garrien," Finnick smiled, a sharp curve of the lips, "we appreciate your input." Then he turned to the two Tributes with a wink in the corner of his eyes: "being easy on the eyes is, of course, a bonus. Helped me win, granted, helped Garrien and most of us actually, helped Augustus of District 1 who won two years ago, helped Carla of District 5..." 

"I think I get the picture," Darcy assured, "it's a pretty picture." 

Finnick let out a huff of laughter. "The Capitol loves anything which they can look at for an extended period of time without getting bored. Don't think of this as a death pit, think of it as the greatest event to ever appear on television and it just happens to revolve around ways to die." 

"That helps," Weiss intoned flatly, then asked with genuine curiosity: "do they even film you when you're going to the toil- I mean, toilets don't exist in the Arena, but when you're peeing and stuff?" 

"They do not," Mags assured, smile forming around the cracking words. "Unless you're about to be killed." 

"Mhm," Darcy tried to steer the conversations in an other direction, swallowing the last of her hazelnut ice-cream. "Don't suppose anybody here knows anything about the Arena this year?" 

"The Arena is top-secret," Finnick stated with too-bright eyes and a returning grin tiptoeing over his lips, "but of course I've garnered a thing or two."

"The last two, no three, years more Tributes than usual have died because of the nature around them." Mags started in that slow, deliberate tone of hers. "Last year was a forest in drought, many died of dehydration or were weakened by it. Two years ago the Arena was a mountain region in early fall where at least half of the Tributes died in storms or landslides. The year before that it was a swamp where many died of sickness and water contamination." 

"On top of that," Finnick continued, "the Capitol is reaching one of its exotic peaks once again. There won't be any classical scenarios: no temperate forests, probably no boreal one either and no swamp either. It will most likely be warm. Head Gamemaker Ica Darlens is a very trend-conscious man and he knows that trees and green are not in fashion at the moment. Expect oriental-influenced music in the Capitol-" 

"You might just end up in a poisonous flower field," said the Gray Ghost Garrien from his armchair. "Or a tropical river and lake system." 

"-and a lot of cameras," Finnick continued without battling an eyelash. Then he conjured a white box and placed it between Weiss and Darcy. "Take one of these pills  every morning and every evening. They're vitamins, meant to even out any imbalances you might have and make you stock up in preparation. And don't forget to eat a lot of fat and carbs." 

"Gotcha," Darcy agreed. After a moment of hesitation above the food, she opted for the rosemary-sprinkled potatoes. 

"Once you're done with that, we'll go," Finnick informed her offhandedly while starting on his own muffin. She wondered if it was white chocolate or coconut. Then his words registered. 

"Go where?" She asked, fighting suspicion. It struck her she was alone with a handful of strangers, which didn't help. 

"Personal training centers," he elaborated, "Districts 1, 2 and 4 have them in the trains. They're small but have the essentials. I'll work on your skills until we're both satisfied you can spear a dummy." 

"Why don't the other Districts have that?" Weiss blurted out, but Darcy had already started piercing together the answer herself. 

"They don't worship the Capitol," she answered plainly, casting a quick glance at Eishelle who was absorbed in the world of the screen in front of her. "And so the Capitol doesn't favor them." 

"That's one way to put it," Finnick said diplomatically, "but we prefer saying it is because their Tributes' first needs aren't in polishing skills. It's in eating and... ah, psychological guidance." 

"Haymitch Abernathy is an excellent psychological guide for District 12's kids, I'm sure," Darcy commented with an arched eyebrow while Weiss fastened all his attention on his refilled plate.

The young man's smile flashed teeth: "Then you're lucky you're District 4's Tribute to be trained by Finnick Odair." 

She'd thought herself disillusioned before, yet disappointment at the Victors, at Finnick, still washed over her. "I don't feel very lucky. I don't think being Reaped at all counts as luck." 

He smiled again, but it was kinder this time. "Wrong attitude, love, it's the greatest commercial event yet, remember? You're lucky to be here. Whenever you talk to somebody, you're in luck and honored."  

"Right," she sighed, anger evaporating while she stood up. "If I eat any more I'll explode and I don't plan on dying any time soon." 

"Good," he chimed, "then let's go." He turned to Mags: "here again at seven?" 

She nodded, patting Weiss' pale hand, "we'll meet here again at seven." 

"Weiss isn't coming?" Darcy then realized, pausing where she'd been about to follow Finnick out toward the darker hallway. 

"Mags and I always focus on one Tribute each," he explained as he disappeared off, Darcy speeding up to keep up with his longer strides. "That way we can figure out personal strategies and strengths more easily without having to divide our attention." 

"I see," Darcy hummed and wondered if Finnick always trained the older one since Mags couldn't be physically fit enough to immerse herself into weaponry the same way the very much fit Finnick had to be capable of. Mags was the... psychological guide. That meant Weiss... Darcy decided to keep her musings to herself, once again: it felt like a habit. However, something must've shown on her face when he glanced back at her while sliding a door open, for there was that sharp smile again. 

Finnick closed the door behind them. The room they found themselves in was long and evenly lit, the walls a metallic gray and five dummies erected at the far left of the space. To her immediate right was a wall serving as weapon-station. She could distinguish at least five types of swords, an array of throwing knives and various daggers of different shapes and sizes, a bow with arrows, a heavy club, an axe, a mean-looking glove whose fingers were enlonged with blades and a set of spears. 

"The last Tribute I trained was good with a Morning Star," Finnick told her while prying the first spear from the rack. 

"He also got killed on the third day because he branch he sat on was too dry and weak to hold his weight. The mutant lions beneath ended up eating him," Darcy pointed out unhelpfully. She'd turned away at that scene last year. 

"What I was aiming for," Finnick said even though a funny sound escaped him, "is that a spear will always be found in the Arena. Weapons like Morning Stars won't be likely to appear. That goes for Tridents as well, mind you, which is what most from our District are comfortable with." 

"Great," she smiled dryly as she accepted the weapon from him, avoiding meeting his keen gaze in favor of familiarizing herself with the weight of the spear, taking a step back and balancing it before twirling the metal javelin. As expected the balance was perfect, although it was of a very light material. "This is quality." 

"The Capitol wouldn't give you anything less," he threw back, "before you give me a demonstration, is there anything else I should be aware of? A bad foot, unable to swim, special capabilities?" 

"Not that I can think- wait, I'm farsighted," she shared with him, then held a hand up a little less than an arm's length away, "any closer than this and it becomes blurry." 

"That's better than nearsighted," he sighed, studying her with an intensity that had she been anybody else, she would've blushed, "any good news?" 

"I'm a really cool person?" 

He grinned. "Let's see if the spears agree." 

With one final swipe of the spear, she breathed out slowly and focused on the nearest dummie, the one in the middle of the room, judges the distance to be a little closer than mid-range, and the hurled it. Perhaps it was its off weight or her being out of practice, but it embedded itself into the side of the head instead of in the center of the chest. 

"Are all Capitol spears that size and weight?" She asked while picking the second spear, hoping she wouldn't have to go through the process of adapting and re-learning every time a new javelin appeared. 

"They're the standard isssue." 

With some degree of relief despite her less than impressive initial try, Darcy went back for a second attempt. The stiff material of her dress protested greatly against the pulling back of arm and back and sudden motion forward, especially tight around shoulder and bust, but her aim was better the second time and the spear was buried deep into the left shoulder, just above the heart. Her third attempt was a little worse yet again, pride clouding her judgement and therefore resulting in a fatal but accidental headshot, while the fourth one embedded itself into the side of the stomach. The fifth and last one came the closest to the center but lacked the power to stick out of the dummy and clattered to the floor instead. And all the while, Finnick had watched with an unreadable expression and alert eyes. 

"Retrieve them," he ordered somewhat meaninglessly, as Darcy had already set off to wrestle her weapons back. Arms full, she returned. 

"You're a fast learner," he announced, "your technique is a little off but that's easy to fix as long as you keep your brain functioning at all times. Once that's done you have to keep elegance in mind." 

"That's no problem, we'll have that fixed in a few hours," she huffed, thinking there were limits to how fast she could learn. "And really, elegance? Does that matter when I'm about to have my head chopped off?" 

"Fixing your technique hopefully keeps the threat of decapitation at bay," he stated, taking four of the javelins and placing them on the ground, leaving Darcy with the fifth. "Elegance will make it more enjoyable to look at you while you kill your would-be-decapitator." 

"Please tell me we're not going for the sexy angle," she sighed theatrically to keep gray feelings at bay, breathing out evenly when he came to stand close behind her to correct her stance, one hand angling her hips and the other ghosting against forearm before the bronzed, calloused fingers closed around her wrist to ensure she held her spear a little higher. 

"Doubtful," he assured with a short laugh and Darcy could feel his breath tickle against her cheek. Then he took a step back. "The power of the throw comes from the shoulder, it's all about how you twist your hips, then body and finally shoulders forward. Your grip and step is excellent but keep the shaft closer to your body throughout the motion." 

The first spear barely grazed the target, ripping off a chink of the gray dummy. The second found its destination and was buried into the tissue between shoulder and collarbone, and the last three all lodged themselves into the  target circle though none came close to the red lines indicating almost instant fatality. Although, the very last one would immobilize an opponent almost indefinitely and the second last would render them unable to fight back any time soon. 

It was an improvement, although she _had_ only practiced on the same dummy from exactly the same spot: perfecting a technique should never be done without variation. 

And thus Darcy -more than ready to forget about the Games during practice- jogged toward the five spears though quickly slowed down again as her bra had been chosen because it was pretty, not because it was practical. The process of hurling the javelins with pointers and trivia tips from Finnick was repeated another three times: 

"Don't lean back as much, and try to make the step forward seem graceful." 

"Don't forget to stretch this evening, work especially much on your back, many forget that." 

"During Training, don't work with heavy weapons or running, it makes your metabolism speed up and that's the last thing you need in the Arena." 

"With that glare of yours, we can't go with the sweet angle when presenting you to the Capitol." 

"Cutting aorta is as lethal as the neck, but with less space for missing. You can bet they'll be guarding upper chest and throat more."

"Elegance, love, you're forgetting the elegance."

"That's enough practice for now, we can't have you end up with muscle aches. Tomorrow I'll pull you through basics of using the spear at close-quarters." 

The dawning realization about her odds and chances drawing ever nearer, Darcy distracted herself by lining the five spears up against their metal rack. "At the Training center, I can pretend I'm used to only wielding tridents. I know how to hold them and that they usually have to be thrown with more of an arch, so I can incorporate that into my first few tries and then pretend I'm just a natural at spears who can go from hitting shoulders to hitting stomachs and chests in less than an hour." 

At first his expression remained absent, as though lost in thought, but then he nodded curtly, a white smile blooming into place. If Darcy hadn't known what trauma and truth lurked underneath, she wouldn't have been able to tell a speck of him was fake. 

"If I ever had doubts about you getting into the Career Pack, it's all gone now." 

While Darcy's brain was trying to register the fact that she'd work together with bloodthirsty monsters, he mouth said: "You had doubts about that?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Yeah, I enjoyed writing this^^ At times I feared I was flubbing the conversations but I suppose it could be worse. 
> 
> Also, I realized something once done with this chapter. 50% of all the Tributes are girls. Girls spend about a week every month either on their period or doing the pre-period pms. Thats 25% of all their time. That means 12.5% of all Tributes are on their periods during the HG, assuming it only lasts a week which it rarely does. However, while some girls would be too young or malnourished to have their period the statistics wouldn't go up very much because of the aforementioned length of the HG, the end result being that approximately 15% of all Tributes are on their period at some point during the Games. Do we hear about that?  
> No. 
> 
> Just a random thought.
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter was supposed to cover the entire train ride. Ooopsies....


End file.
